


The touches, gentle and cruel

by Beweme



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Broken Mind, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, In The Nicest Way Possible, M/M, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, beating up the fave, codependent relationship, he is insane someone save him, maxwell is very mean, wilson is not okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beweme/pseuds/Beweme
Summary: The nightmare king knows how to be cruel. Very rarely he knows how to be gentle.And Wilson, Wilson is just steadily losing his mind.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	The touches, gentle and cruel

**Author's Note:**

> Why sleep when you can write stuff and then wake up in the morning and think 'wtf when did this happen'.

  
The first gentle touch he had received had been unexpected, odd, and unnatural. It had been like a touch from a ghost, so unreal it felt to him. But it had come in the time he had really, truly needed it more than anything else, which is why Wilson remembered it so well, why he found his mind often returning back to that moment.

Wilson didn't remember many gentle touches before Constant, even less in the Constant. But they were becoming a bit more common now, for whatever reason Maxwell had decided to gift them to him when he was weak and a little bit less than sane.

Maxwell was capable of such incredible cruelty, Wilson didn't need to be reminded of that. He had enough memories in his mind to last for the eternity, some of the memories marked into his skin, scarred underneath his clothes. He remembered more than he wanted to.

But the first gentle touch had left no mark, no bruise or cut. And sure, gentleness rarely left any traces behind, but Wilson had gotten so used to the unkind, hard, violent touches that he almost expected that his skin and flesh would burn away under that one touch that was so soft and kind to him.

Maxwell knew how to be mean, he knew where to strike to really damage Wilson's pride, he knew how to shatter his self-esteem and crush his spirit. Wilson hadn't escaped the words without the lasting damage, either.

But, there had been no harsh words, no bite nor bark when he had recieved that first gentle touch. There had been no jest or mockery, no ridicule in Maxwell's lips. No fangs or claws sunk into Wilson that time. Just Maxwell's long, gloved fingers, brushing through Wilson's hair, petting his cheek, softly running over his neck. The touch had been... careful, almost.

At least compared to the other touches he knew Maxwell was very capable of.

"Head in the clouds, Higgsbury?"

Wilson shivered when the lips pressed to his ear, the soft, low voice cutting through his thoughts he had been lost in. The thin, cold talons ran over his body, lightly sweeping his skin, leaving ticklish trail where they traveled. Wilson couldn't stop the trembling breath escaping his mouth.

Gentle touches. Gentleness was so rare in this world.

Maxwell wasn't gentle with him often, but when he was, he was _Gentle_. It was like a dream in the middle of nightmares. It was like a warm blanket in the snowstorm. It was like sinking in the fullest, richest wine, mouth open and ready to let it ruin his senses, ready to let it bury his mind under the velvet gossamer. Wilson would always so feverishly lean into that gentleness, those touches that brought him not agony, but pleasure.

...And it was so _cruel_.

Maxwell treated him like a flower, so softly and carefully cutting off the thorns, cutting off every possibility to defend himself, cutting away the independence and the impression of safety, and his sharp claws would so fondly and lovingly pinch every single petals away until there was nothing else left in Wilson, until he was naked and hurt and colorless from all the use.

And then, then Maxwell would press him close and call him pretty names and touch him like he was the most precious thing he had ever held in his arms.

It was unfair, it was malicious, it was brutal. Wilson needed it so, so badly.

Maxwell's tongue slithered on his neck, the saliva he left behind turning cold and making Wilson shiver, press closer to the man behind him to stay in the warmth.

...He remembered the first gentle touch.

He remembered crying, he remembered the chaos in his head, the dark, so so dark, everywhere, all the time, and the river flowing blood, the animals turned into monsters, the whole wide word being nothing else than sharp teeth and claws, and the whispers in his head, hurting, gnawing his insides, and it was terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible terrible terribleterribleterrible-

And then there had been a voice. The voice he knew, the voice that belonged to someone he hated, hated and needed, and hated how much he needed.

"You've really made a mess out of yourself, pal."

Wilson had been ready to die. He had welcomed death. He was ready to let Maxwell tear him to pieces, cut his body open and turn his insides out, force him to eat his own organs while he was still alive, but he was so ready to just stop existing, and he was sure that the devil had come to end him.

But instead there had been a touch. A touch that Wilson had not felt before. A hand on his head, petting him like a dog, fingers running comfortingly in his hair. Wilson had done something he had never thought he'd do, never, ever.

He leaned to the touch and cried.

... And his tears were not met with laughter. No, they were met with a soft cloth, drying off his cheeks, and he had leaned to that touch, too.

"I know. It won't get any easier, pal. This is your life now."

Wilson burst out in tears again, but still, no mockery, no fist grasping his hair, no cruelty fell upon him. Only gentle little touches, hushed words. And he, the idiot, the scared, touch starved mutt drunk it all up in the moment where Wilson had ceased to exist, and the only thing that was left of him was need.

Need to be heard, need to be touched, need to be held.

Need to _be._

In a way, Wilson knew he had died in that moment after all. Because sometimes he could think clearly enough to remember the burning hate towards the older man, he could think straight enough to understand that this was not _real_ gentleness, but rather a way of control, giving a little treat instead of punishment, and Wilson allowed it, knowingly welcomed it.

Yes, he was sure that he had died back then. He needed to die in order to survive, it was an act of kindness, from him to himself, to protect the little he had left of his mind and self. And he hid it away, buried it so deep that nobody could find it and destroy it. It was hidden, dark and deep, safe. A victory in the size of a teardrop, in the ocean of the losses. He had long forgotten where that piece of him was hidden, and perhaps it was even better that way.

Wilson let out a quiet whimper when Maxwell pushed him on his knees and leaned over him, hot breath hungrily huffing on his back.

"I better return you back on earth, pal. You're much more enjoyable when you're aware of your whereabouts."

Wilson just arched his back and bit his lip. Maxwell was, in all honesty, capable of things that Wilson would never be able to leave behind. Capable of the unspeakable kind of pain, harm unlike any other, the kind of torture that didn't just kill, but destroyed completely.

But in these occasions, getting more and more common, when Wilson was just a ghost of himself, barely even a person any longer, Maxwell could be so _gentle_ to him.

And he, the madman and the fool, allowed it.


End file.
